


The Art of Healing

by Calais_Reno



Series: Conductor of Light [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Charles Dickens - Freeform, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Don't copy to another site, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Minor Injuries, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Holmes makes Watson a generous offer; Watson refuses, and won’t explain why.Misadventures, illness, hurt/comfort, and a happy ending.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Conductor of Light [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983838
Comments: 47
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Искусство исцеления](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960311) by [qeingdiabolics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qeingdiabolics/pseuds/qeingdiabolics)



I didn’t feel the bullet. I ran, and it was only when I felt something wet on my arm that I realised I was bleeding. Quite a lot, in fact. I stood, watching the blood drip down my arm onto the cobblestones.

Watson was at my side in an instant. “Holmes — you’re hurt!” He put his own shoulder under my good arm, his arm around my waist, and walked me over to a stoop. The coat was ruined. He began peeling it off.

“Blast,” I muttered. “Didn’t even feel it. Probably just grazed me.”

“Let me see the damage,” Watson said, opening my blood-soaked shirt. “Looks like it went through. A bit more than a flesh wound. Exit wound’s on the back of your arm.”

Whenever he had an injury to tend to, Watson was remarkably detached and analytical. His hand did not shake, and he did not go to pieces. He was a soldier at such times, a doctor at all times. Though he lacked the credentials, whatever it is that shapes men’s characters had made him a healer.

We’d been together for a year, in which time he’d stitched up many small wounds, bound sprained ankles and wrists, and rubbed liniment on a plethora of bumps and bruises. Only after he’d tended to me did he berate me for my carelessness.

This was the most seriously I’d been wounded in all that time. I watched his face as he pulled a roll of gauze from his pocket and wrapped it around the wound to stop the bleeding. He did not meet my eyes, but I fancied that his face was a bit pale, his breathing somewhat quickened.

I sucked in my breath as he poured something onto the gauze from a small flask. “What the devil is that?”

“Phenol solution,” he said. “Prevents infection.”

“Stings like the devil. Really, Watson, it’s just a scratch—“ At that point my vision started to blur a bit and I forgot what I was going to say.

One of Lestrade’s men, Thompson, came running around the corner, breathing hard. “Got away,” he panted, leaning forward, hands on his knees.

“Go after him, Watson!” I used my good arm to remove myself from his ministrations. When he did not move, I gave him a shove. The pain made me hiss. “Well? What are you waiting for? The man was old and flabby. He cannot have run so far.”

Watson shook his head. “You’re hurt. You need a doctor.”

“Go,” I said. “I’m fine. Go!” I gave him another push.

Watson frowned and looked as if he might say something more, but then ran.

Lestrade arrived, assessed the damage, and bundled me into a cab.

Once home, Lestrade helped me up the stairs to the flat, where I collapsed into a chair. Mrs Hudson exclaimed over the quantity of blood and immediately sent Billy for a doctor.

There was quite a lot of blood, I noted, and it was still soaking the makeshift bandage Watson had made. Sometimes even superficial wounds bleed copiously, I reminded myself. My head began to feel light, as if I were floating above myself, and my ears filled with a peculiar buzzing, an almost comforting hum. _Bees,_ I thought. _Where are the bees?_

I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, the doctor had arrived and was asking questions. Lestrade answered what he could, which was a good thing, as I was having trouble thinking of words. They moved me to the settee, where I was made to lie back and elevate my legs. The doctor cleaned and bound the wound, tutting over how it could have been much worse. _Just a fraction closer to an artery and he might have bled out_ , he said.

Mrs Hudson made tea. Lestrade asked Thompson questions about the suspect, sent him off on an errand, consulted with him when he returned, and sent him off again.

Mycroft arrived with another doctor. The two doctors discussed the wound, disagreed about its severity. The second doctor unwrapped the bandage, applied antiseptic (again), argued with Doctor Number One about whether stitches were needed, closed the wound with several stitches, and rebound it. Mycroft made comments about the quality of physician training and the recklessness of certain consulting detectives.

Altogether too many people were walking about the flat, talking to me and each other, getting on my nerves. My shoulder ached, my arm throbbed, and I felt as limp as a dishcloth.

“Where is John?” I asked petulantly. “Why hasn’t he returned?”

Nobody knew.

“Did no one think to put him in a cab?”

Thompson cleared his throat. “You told him to run after the suspect. I expect he’s still looking.”

“Without any backup?” I glared at everyone. “The man has a gun! This is absurd— Lestrade, go find him!”

Lestrade sighed. “Holmes, it was your call to send him after Ruggles, and I’ve got other things to do than track your boy down. He’ll make his way back here. He’s a sharp one, used to the streets, and bold enough to scare off any trouble.”

“Then send Thompson,” I replied crossly. Neither cop moved. “Somebody find Watson!” I bellowed.

Mycroft exchanged a look with Lestrade, gave a nod to Doctor Number Two, and then turned to me. “Sherlock, you need to rest. Let’s move you into your bed and get you settled.”

Still light-headed, I allowed myself to be walked to the bedroom. Mycroft helped me undress and tucked me under the covers. The doctor gave me a sedative. Almost at once I began to feel sleepy. Mycroft sat beside me, watching.

Watson was gone. I felt as if I might weep.

“Please, Mycroft,” I said weakly. “Find John. I want him.”

“He’ll be back. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“But what if he’s hurt? What if he’s been shot? He can’t die, Mycroft! I need him!”

“Don’t worry, brother mine.” Mycroft patted my hand. “Sleep now.”

I turned into my pillow, murmuring, “I love him.”

Light was coming through the curtains when I opened my eyes. My painful shoulder reminded me of the events of the previous evening.

Relief washed through me when I saw his blond head laid on the bed, sound asleep. I raised my hand, carded my fingers through the fair hair.

He roused, lifted his head. “All right, Holmes?”

“Superficial wound. As you said, the bullet went right through. A lot of blood, but no permanent damage.”

“I didn’t find him,” he rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“It was too late. I shouldn’t have bothered sending you.”

“Holmes,” he said, licking his lips. _Nervous gesture._ “I — I wish you hadn’t sent me after that fellow, you being wounded and not knowing how bad it was. The bullet might’ve hit an artery, and you could’ve bled out. When I made it back, you were gone, and there was so much blood on the pavement… I thought — I thought you might have died.” Lips trembling, he ducked his head. Tears fell on the counterpane.

“I am not so easy to kill,” I said, patting his arm. “I promise you, I’m going to be around for a long time yet.”

“Ridiculous. No one can make such a promise.” He glared at me, his eyes still red. “However, I can promise you that next time I will not obey such an absurd order, not even if you lose your temper and rant at me, call me an idiot and threaten to end our partnership. My place is at your side, protecting you. You have the brains, I supply the brawn. Do not argue this point with me.”

His vehemence made me smile. “My dear Watson, I would not dare.”

“Good.” He nodded, still scowling. “I’ve looked at the dressing, but did not want to lift it to see the wound. The doctor told me he put in a couple of stitches. And he has prescribed morphine, which is probably a good thing right now. Pressuring me to get more for you will not work, however.”

“I won’t. Morphine is a terrible overlord. I don’t wish to fall under its power again.”

He helped me into a sitting position, propping my back with extra pillows and tucking the blankets around me.

“Would you like some tea?” he offered. “If you’re hungry, I can make you some eggs and toast.”

“Just tea.”

He went to boil the kettle and steep the tea. I lay staring at the ceiling, thinking.

“Here you are,” Watson said, depositing a steaming cup in my hands.

I gestured at the chair. “Sit.” Sipping my tea, I studied him. “I’m wondering, Watson.”

“Not merely observing? Or drawing conclusions?” He smiled at last, and it was as if the sun had just come out from behind a cloud.

“I have gathered evidence, drawn my conclusions, and now am wondering what you will say about it.”

“About what?”

“You have been my partner for a year now. When I met you, you were passing yourself off as a doctor.”

“Please, Holmes,” he said, rolling his eyes a bit. “I’d rather forget.”

“I have not forgotten. It was part of the reason I asked to you work for me.”

He laughed out loud. “What? Because I lied to you?”

“No, because you had a natural talent for the work of healing, and were brazen enough to use that talent illegally to survive.” Remembering the young man who stood up to my imposing brother, demanding to examine his patient, I smiled.

He shrugged. “It made sense at the time. Better than the alternatives, for sure. Now, of course, I regret it. Especially when your brother threatened to report me to the Medical Board.”

“You might still be passing yourself off as a doctor if you hadn’t met me and my vindictive brother.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I like to think I would eventually have found some legal way to make my living.”

“Perhaps you could still become a doctor.”

“No.”

“Why not? It’s obvious that you’re largely self-taught, but your ability to pick it up on your own, without a teacher, indicates a strong aptitude.” I smiled at him. “And it’s obviously something you want. What kind of man carries gauze and phenol, tweezers and other small tools of the trade in his pockets? A healer, that’s who. Further education will help you complete what you started.”

His face darkened. “Holmes, I said no. Do not ask me again.” He stood and left the room.

I puzzled over his reaction. He was clearly a proficient reader; he managed all my files, scanned the newspapers daily for articles, and pored over my technical books in his spare time. Writing up notes does not require a high literary style, but his skill was more than adequate. He was accurate and careful with our records, paid our bills on time, handled my correspondence, and interviewed witnesses.

I have an ear for language, and have painstakingly taught myself to recognise many varieties of London’s English. I learned to mimic many of them with some accuracy as well. I understood how difficult this skill is to acquire. Every day my Watson spoke a language that was inherently foreign to him. His native idiom was Northumbrian, which is perhaps the most difficult of all English dialects to understand, and one of the oldest. Watson grew up speaking this, and only much later learned to pass as an educated Londoner. I could occasionally hear his ancestral tongue seeping through, usually when he was angry or tired or had too much to drink. More than once it had proved useful on a case. Most people would not know his origins, now that he had the money to dress properly and had learned to suppress his accent.

Intellectually, he was above average; with the energy and discipline I saw him display, he might handle the demands of medical school without difficulty. This might mean giving up some of his duties to me, which I was willing to do. I would need to figure out how to pay for it, but the investment would be well worth it. Our practice was doing well, but more than one case had needed a medical expert. I trusted Watson’s judgment about such things, but Scotland Yard did not, insisting on their own experts’ opinions.

What could be behind his refusal to study medicine? He had attended classes at Edinburgh, he said, for just a year, until his mother died and left him and his brother destitute. He certainly had the ability to earn a medical license legitimately, and it should not take him more than three years to do so.

I would wait a bit, and observe.

My convalescence took longer than I expected, mostly because my Watson can be a martinet when he has a mind to do so. He organised my haphazard eating habits into three solid meals and numerous cups of tea in between. My sleep habits were similarly wedged into a schedule, with eight hours of rest each night required. He slept at my side to make certain I did not get out of bed until the proper hour.

“I’m bored,” was my daily complaint.

His solution was to provide me with newspapers and other reading material, including several rather ponderous looking novels he offered me. I saw no point in reading fiction, and told him so.

“Think of it as a study in human psychology,” he told me.

“I consider it a study in irrational characters, silly emotions, and plots that are completely the product of wishful thinking on the part of some author who has never done any of those things himself.”

But I quickly became engrossed in _Treasure Island,_ a recent novel by a new author. As I young child, I’d planned on becoming a pirate, and Mr Stevenson’s story let me revisit that life. In the years since I’d acted out my adventures, I’d learned that the reality of piracy is far more dreary than the story suggests, but this did not stop me from reliving my youthful dream in those pages.

“I’m going to Scotland Yard,” he announced after lunch one day. “While I am gone, you are to sit in your chair, read the newspaper, and not stir until I return.”

“I’ve finished the newspaper. Is it a case?” I was jealous at once, thinking that Lestrade has sent word and Watson was going to help him with some interesting puzzle.

“No, Lestrade will not give you any more work until you are fully healed. But he does have a rather large backlog of unsolved cases. I suggested to him that you could solve one or two of them from your armchair, and he agreed to let me pick up some files.”

“I’m sure they’re boring,” I said, lighting my pipe. “How many are there?”

“Enough to keep you occupied for weeks. How many would you like to begin with?”

“How many more days must I remain invalid?”

“A week, at least.”

I shrugged. “Seven, then. I shall have them solved by the end of the week. If I solve them sooner, you must let me take a real case.”

“If you solve them sooner, I will bring you more,” he replied, smiling. “Here’s another book for you— a mystery. No peeking ahead at the solution! Now, be a good boy and stay in your chair until I return.”

I took the hefty volume: _The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens._ It sounded dull, and it was Dickens, so I knew there were be far more words than were strictly necessary, but I set myself a goal of figuring it out by the time I reached the halfway point.

A knocking downstairs roused me from the mystery. I had formed a preliminary theory about the disappearance of the title character and his murder (for surely it was a murder, even though a body had not been found), but it is always a capital mistake to theorise before all the evidence has been considered.

Mrs Hudson appeared at my door. “There’s a young man here to see Mr Watson. Shall I send him up?”

I set the book aside. John Watson never had visitors, though he occasionally went out to the pub with a few army friends. I was not jealous of these outings, but curious about the type of people who deserved his time and attention. Whoever had come to see him might provide a few moments of interest. “Certainly. And if you would be so good, bring us some tea.”

The young man who came to my door was ruddy-cheeked and stocky, really an overgrown boy, to all appearances.

“Afghanistan,” I said. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“William Murray,” the young man said. “And you must be Sherlock Holmes.” He smiled, his cheeks squeezing his eyes almost shut.

 _Brilliant deduction_. “You want Watson.”

Murray nodded. “I thought I’d see if he was able to get away and have a pint with me.” He seemed to take in my displeasure. “We’re mates, er, friends.”

“Get away?” I frowned harder. “Get away from whom?”

“Oh,” said Murray. “I didn’t— what I mean is, if he wasn’t busy, he might come out, have a pint.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Well, he works hard. Deserves a bit of fun.”

“Fun? And how is it _fun_ to sit in a noisy pub breathing the toxic odours given off by working men spilling cheap beer on themselves and smoking the rankest grade of tobacco?”

Murray chuckled. “I can see why he doesn’t get out much.” The eyes disappeared into the cheeks once more. “You’re quite the tyrant.”

I didn’t detect any innuendos in Murray’s words, but began to wonder what exactly Watson had been telling this man. I wondered how many other _mates_ Watson might have. “I’m a tyrant?”

Murray seemed to realise his mistake. “No, sir. I’m being facetious. I know you keep him busy, though.”

“He discusses his work with you.”

“Er… he’s mentioned some of your cases. Not any current ones. Just the ones he’s written up. We told him he really ought to publish some of the stories. A magazine would pay good money for adventures like that.”

I imagined Watson, surrounded by a crowd of _mates,_ reading aloud from some badly-written, romanticised account of one of our cases, glowing at their praise, getting his head full of ridiculous ideas. Just as well that this apple-cheeked _mate_ stopped by, or I might never have known it until I saw myself caricatured on the cover of one of those magazines. Right to the point, then: “What else does he say about me?”

Murray was starting to sweat a bit, and his cheeks had paled. He tugged at his collar. “Nothing. Nothing at all. He’s… very proud to work for you, Mr Holmes. Brags a bit, to be honest.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, sir. He says you only have to look at a man and you can tell him where he was born, how he grew up, what kind of work he does.”

“Does he complain that I’m a hard man to live with?”

The man hesitated, already up to his knees in things he ought not have said. “You’re a fair man, and a good one.”

Caution was clearly shutting off the spigot of information. “Well, Mr Murray. Watson is not here. He’s doing some legwork for me this afternoon and will not be able to take part in your pub fun. I’ll tell him you were here. Good day.”

I closed the door on a very red-faced Murray and immediately went to Watson’s desk. I’d seen him writing, but assumed it was case notes. Finding the notebook, I sat down to wait for Watson.

It was not twenty minutes later when I heard Watson’s feet on the stairs. A bit breathless, but smiling, he burst through the door. In his arms he held a parcel tied with string, no doubt the case files.

“Here’s reading material for you! I picked out the best of the lot, seven cases that will keep you occupied for at least a week.” He opened the parcel. “Where would you like to start? There’s one here, a disappearance and presumed murder. All they ever found of the poor fellow was his left foot, identifiable only by the shoe still attached to it.” He held out the file.

“I think I’d rather read one of your stories,” I said.

“My stories?”

I held up the notebook. “Before you submit to a magazine, it would be fair to let me read any other stories you’ve written, seeing as I am the protagonist.”

Watson’s face paled.

I gave him my iciest smile. “Or… did you mean for me to be the villain?”

“I don’t intend to send any stories to a magazine,” he said. “I write them for my own amusement, and happened to read one to a few friends who were interested. I shouldn’t have done that without your permission. I am very sorry, Holmes.”

Opening the notebook, I began to read aloud:

_“His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing… and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had occasion to observe when I watched him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.”_

“Are you obsessed with my eyes, Watson? Look, here on the next page you have me staring dreamily at nothing! I suppose my brilliant mind gives me that dreamy expression— that is, when my _nose_ is not giving me an air of _alertness and decision_. Why is it necessary to describe me at all? If I am to be the subject of such romantic drivel, can I not be judged on my actions rather than my eyes, my nose, my chin, and my hands?”

“Readers want to know what characters look like,” he said. “You are a striking person, Holmes.”

“Striking, yes,” I replied. “I notice you do not use the word _handsome._ ”

He smiled shyly. “To my eyes, you are handsome. But my impressions are coloured by my great affection for you.”

I gave him a sharp glance. “The manner of our meeting, as you describe it, is quite unbelievable. We both just happen to be looking for a flatmate? The odds of that—”

“I can hardly tell the true story, Holmes,” he replied. “Yes, I have fictionalised us. I do not think it makes us worse. It only makes a better story.”

“A romantic story,” I grumbled.

“Yes, though not more romantic than the true story.” His cheeks grew pink. “I know you’re not inclined towards romantic feelings, my dear, but did not Fate bring us together?”

I had no reply for this. There were many independent factors that had brought us together, none of them controlled by an all-powerful force beyond human understanding. To explain this to John Watson while he was smiling at me as if the hand of Destiny had led him to me would do no good.

Instead, I said, “I will read the rest later, when I am feeling less _eccentric_ and _irritable,_ when my _keen intellect_ is less cluttered with minutiae. Then I shall turn my _uncanny powers of observation_ on this humble notebook. _”_ I tucked the offending article into the side of my chair. “Do I bore you, Watson?”

“Obviously not,” he said. “I’ve written over a hundred pages there, all about you. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve written, only sorry that I didn’t tell you about it.”

“I perceive that you have been careful to conceal your stories from me. I would have discovered them eventually, though, you know. As Fate would have it, your friend Murray stopped by earlier, waxing enthusiastic about your _adventures_ with me. He seemed to think you need to have more _fun_ , though, and wanted to rescue you from me for a few hours so you could drink beer with him and your other _mates_.”

“He’s always inviting me, but I generally refuse. Last time he was more persuasive, and I told him I might come by. That was two weeks ago, before you were shot. I shall not go out tonight.”

I studied his expression. There was nothing covert there, nothing concealed. I could see what had drawn him to Murray, a man closer to his own social class, clearly not from wealth or society. He was the son of a successful tradesman, probably not dissimilar to the father who had let Watson down so badly. They had a shared experience in Afghanistan. Like many former soldiers, they enjoyed sharing a drink and talking of their army days. I had no reason to be peeved about this, but I was.

“Run along,” I said. “Join your friends at the pub, if you like. Only do not tell them tales about me.”

Watson shook his head. “I’m not in the mood for society. I prefer to stay at home with you. Let me fix us some tea. We’ll sit by the fire until Mrs Hudson brings up some dinner for us.”

“As you wish.”

I did not return to the notebook until we’d finished our evening meal. Watson sat in his chair and opened the novel he was reading. “Have you finished _Edwin Drood_ yet?”

“No. But I promise you that I have not peeked at the ending.” I looked up at him.

He was smiling as if this amused him. “I believe you. Do let me know when you finish.”

I opened the notebook once more and read. When I was on the third, unfinished story, I found myself endeavouring not to smile.

Watson stood, rubbing his eyes. “I’m done in. Are you ready to retire?”

I closed the notebook but did not move from my chair. “Only if you will sleep in my bed. And by _sleep,_ I mean no such thing.”

He took my hands and drew me to my feet. “Are you well enough for the _things_ you’re suggesting?”

“My arm is sore, but all my other parts are in good working order. I’m sure we can manage.”

He was very gentle with me, careful to put no strain on my arm and shoulder. Afterwards he held me and quickly succumbed to sleep. I lay awake, thinking about the stories he had written. Though the writing was amateurish and unbearably romantic, it was flattering to be the subject of so much admiration. The stories would have to be cleaned up a bit before they could be published, of course. Perhaps Mycroft knew of a good editor.


	2. Chapter 2

It was that detestable season when winter hasn’t yet given up its icy hold on the world, and spring’s showers freeze before they can reach the ground. Even as the days grew longer, warmth was but a distant memory. The slush and biting winds made the world a miserable place.

I had accepted a case which took us out of town to a house in Yorkshire. It was nice to get away from London, where the soupy fog closed around us, even if I meant staying in a place even colder and wetter. We walked the grounds in waxed coats and oiled boots to keep out the damp, but it found us nonetheless, creeping through every layer and chilling us to the marrow. Watson found it easier to bear than I did; being a northerner, I supposed he was acclimated to it.

The evidence we sought, a pair of boots, had been sunk in a small pond, I had deduced, and Watson had insisted on being the one to go in and find them. It had been several weeks since I was shot, and my wound gave me only minor discomfort, but he would not hear of me getting wet and poking around in the icy pond. 

“Your arm cannot stand up to the strain of muck-raking,” he said, taking up the tool our client had provided. “Besides, you would ruin your new coat; mine is expendable.” He waded in, wearing a pair of thigh-high boots belonging to one of the labourers.

The pond was only knee-deep, and he made a circuit, using the long rake to break the thin ice and search along the edges. When he did not encounter any objects on the outer edge, he moved towards the centre, still raking, stepping with care.

All at once he was up to his neck, gasping in the icy water.

“Fetch a rope, Holmes.” He sounded surprisingly calm. “I’m sinking into a quantity of mud, unable to move my feet. Please, hurry.”

“Don’t thrash,” I warned him. “You’ll sink faster.”

“Go,” he said. “Hurry.”

It took me some minutes to make it back to the house, and then I had to find someone to help. I finally located a workman on the roof, repairing the eaves. When I described what had happened, he found a rope and another man, who hitched up a horse to a wagon and promised to meet us at the pond.

The roofer and I ran all the way back to the pond. We found Watson standing motionless, up to his chin now as he sank deeper into the mud. The roofer tossed him the rope; he caught it but his hands were too frozen to tie it around his body. Instead, he wrapped it around his wrist.

I could see that he was shaking with the cold. His face was impassive, but I could not imagine him not fearing what might happen if he sank another couple of inches before we could extract him. The other workman arrived with the wagon. The two of them began pulling on the rope, but it was clear that the boots had filled with water and were weighting him down, buried in several inches of mud.

It took nearly an hour, using the horse to pull him up inch by inch until he was able to wriggle out of the boots. By that time he was scarcely able to hold the rope, shivering hard and unable to speak. I grabbed him under his arms as he reached the edge of the pond and pulled him onto the grass. The second man had thought to bring a blanket, and after stripping off his sodden coat, I wrapped him in it. The ride back to the house felt like an hour.

I rubbed Watson’s hands and feet. They were pale and ice-cold, and I knew that frost-bite was a possibility. The thought that he might lose fingers and toes— or even hands and feet— all because of my new wool coat, was unbearable. I wrapped him in it, caring nothing if it was ruined.

A couple of hours in front of the fire brought him back to life. The pink came back to his extremities, but he was clearly too exhausted to take a night train back to London, and his clothing was still wet and muddy. The keeper of the inn where we were stayingsaid his wife could have them wearable by the morning. For a fee, of course.

In the morning he was feverish and coughing.

“We’re going home,” I told him.

“But the case—“ A fit of coughing took him.

“Hang the bloody case. We need to get you home.”

“It’s just a chill, Holmes,” he rasped. “I’ll be fine.”

I did not agree that he was fine, but bundled him in my scarf and coat, hoping that he would sleep on the train. Soon we would be back in our own rooms, with Mrs Hudson to look after us.

“What about you?” he croaked. “You mustn’t fall ill too.”

“The train will be warm. I have not been chilled as you have, so allow me to take care of you.”

This made him smile. “Thank you,” he whispered.

He did sleep, but it was not a restful sleep, punctuated instead by mumbles and cries. As we reached London, I asked a porter to manage our luggage and see us to a cab. Once we arrived at Baker Street, I practically carried Watson up the stairs to our rooms. With relief I accepted Mrs Hudson’s offer of a hot toddy on his behalf and tucked him into bed.

“Holmes, ‘m fine,” he mumbled. “No need to fuss.”

“Do not deny me the privilege of fussing,” I returned. “I believe I have earned it. Mrs Hudson will make soup. When you wake, you will have some. For now, you must sleep. Your body has had a severe shock.”

I got him to drink about half of the toddy, which sent him off to sleep, but he was not quiet. So restless was he, coughing and delirious, that I determined to sit with him. I brought a chair into the bedroom and sat, trying to read _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_ , which I had not yet finished, having laid it aside when I returned to taking cases. After thirty minutes reading the same page over and over, I laid the book aside and stared at Watson, willing him to fight off this illness.

I dozed off at some point, waking when I heard him cough. As he continued hacking and gasping, I sat him up and held him, wiping his face with a wet flannel. His eyes opened, and he stared at me as if he did not know me. “Window,” he said, shivering.

I assured him that I would close the window (which was already closed) and brought another blanket to spread over him. 

Mrs Hudson arrived with the soup. I spooned it into him, and he dutifully swallowed a few mouthfuls, but his throat was swollen, making it hard to swallow, and some of it dribbled down his chin.

When she returned for the bowl, I told Mrs Hudson to have Billy fetch the doctor. She nodded and went to rouse the boy.

Watson closed his eyes and again slept fitfully. There were moments when his eyes opened, but he did not seem to know where he was. At times he seemed to think he was in Afghanistan, after he was shot. He’d contracted enteric fever then and nearly died. Even months later, when we met, he still wore the ravages of that disease.

Another time he woke calling for his mum, weeping and muttering about his dad, begging her to remember something.

“Boots,” he said. “I los’ the boots.”

“No worries,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Lost. Don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry with you, John,” I said. “It’s all right.”

“I hafta… hafta find ‘em. Lost. My mistake.”

“No, John, the mistake was mine.”

I laid cold compresses on his forehead. It was the only thing I could do, and it felt ridiculously inadequate.

Influenza is quite serious enough on its own; this might be something else. I thought of the pond water from which he’d come up sputtering and gasping. Things invisible live in water like that and in places more innocuous. We can see them with a microscope, but not the naked eye. Some of them are harmless, and others can kill us. One day we will learn how to kill them before they kill us, but for now, we can only hope our bodies will fight them off.

When I thought what might happen to Watson, I was afraid.

I admit that I am a selfish man. As I looked at Watson lying in my bed, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, and heard his wretched, wheezing breaths, what I felt was something new. If it were possible, I would have traded places with him. My life was not a thing so precious that he should give his for it. He was a good man, caring for me more than I had cared for him. It was wrong, all wrong.

I should not have let him go into that pond. It was my deduction that had made it necessary. I don’t know if I was right; the case was not solved, and I did not care.

“John,” I whispered. “You must not leave me. I need you because I’m not a very good man. I’m weak and selfish, and you make me better than I am. You are my best thing, my cure.” I stroked his hair as he muttered in his delirium. I kissed his forehead. “I love you.”

The doctor arrived within the hour. He listened to Watson’s chest and took his temperature. The patient roused and opened his eyes, then moaned and closed them again.

“We should put him in the bath, perhaps,” I suggested. “With ice, to cool him.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” the doctor said. “His fever is not too high. It is actually helping, raising the the body temperature and killing the infection. I can give him salicin, though, and his temperature should go down somewhat. Continue giving him warm liquids— tea and broth. I will return in the morning.”

He slept more quietly then. I could not do anything but hold his hand and watch the clock. Mrs Hudson had not gone to bed either; she brought me tea.

“I know you’re not a praying man, Mr Holmes,” she said. “But I’ve been praying for him on your behalf. I hope you don’t mind.”

I do not believe in God, but I am often impressed by the fervour of those who do. Mrs Hudson is a woman who meets calamity with tea and sandwiches. She’s a good and caring person. If there were a God, I am sure he would listen to her. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

She patted my shoulder. “I’ll bring you some sandwiches. You need to keep up your own strength— for him.”

I did not deserve sandwiches. Or tea, or reassurances. I had endangered the person most dear to me, and must suffer now. Still, I ate and drank and accepted Mrs Hudson’s concern, knowing that she cared for me as well as Watson, and that kindness should not be scorned. In those dark hours after midnight, it felt better not to be alone.

As the candle finally guttered out, grey light was coming through the curtains and I could hear the lamplighters returning to put out the gas lights. Watson was still asleep. I laid my hand on his forehead; it felt cooler.

The doctor arrived as Mrs Hudson brought more tea and some toast for me.

“He is improved,” he told me. “But the danger remains. You must keep him quiet and not let him up for a few days. I think he will be fine, though. He’s young and strong, and has fought off the worst of it. The cough will linger for a couple weeks, and he will have less vigour. Work must wait until he feels well enough.”

I thanked him and went back to my seat. Watson was stirring; he blinked at me in confusion.

“You’ve been quite ill,” I told him. “The doctor has been here.”

He appeared to mentally assess his condition, probably trying to remember what had happened.

“Do you remember the pond?”

He nodded. “Didn’t think I was going to make it out of there.”

“Watson.” I had not let go of his hand. “John, you should not have gone into the pond.”

He huffed and closed his eyes. “You would have been an icicle by the time we could have pulled you out. Better me than you. Did you find the boots?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said, looking down at our hands. “I sent you into that pond to prove that my hunch was correct.”

“Generally your hunches are correct,” he replied. “I’d take your best guess over anyone else’s sure thing.”

“No, it was lazy and stupid of me. I should have looked for other evidence before relying on an ill-founded deduction. My _best guess_ was not good enough to risk your life. I should _not_ have ordered you into the pond. Not so very long ago, you informed me that you would refuse all absurd orders from me.”

“It wasn’t an order, Holmes. I agreed that it was worth looking. I volunteered.”

He stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. We were rarely affectionate unless we were in bed. Unlike those acts, as passionate as they were, this felt wonderfully intimate.

“You might have died, John.”

“We take risks every day.” He sighed and gave a weak cough. “Not your fault. In any case, I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“I do blame myself. It was an absurd risk to take. You must not put your life in danger again.”

“Sherlock,” he said. “The world is dangerous, and there is no way to fully deduce all of its perils. I was a soldier, and woke every day knowing it might be my last. And then I returned to London and faced new dangers. But we have each other now, and it’s always better to have a partner in trouble. We’re partners, yeah? We take care of one another.”

I could not see the look on his face because my eyes were full of tears, but I heard the tone of his voice. “John,” I said desperately. “John.”

He sat up and put his arms around me. This action made his coughing start up again. When he caught his breath, I held a cup so he could drink.

“You’re not to leave this bed for a week,” I said. “And you’re never to scare me like this again. That’s an _order_.”

He smiled. “Yes, doctor.”

I spent my days mostly reading aloud to Watson. His eyes were bleary and he seemed content to listen. I read the newspaper and _Treasure Island_ to him. When he tired of that, I recounted a few cases I’d taken on before he joined me.

“Have you got to the end yet?” he asked, nodding at _The Mystery of Edwin Drood._ I’d intended to finish it, but had guessed the solution halfway through, at which point the entire story became boring.

“Obviously the murderer is Jasper. Dickens is not a subtle author; as soon as Jasper came out of the opium den, I knew he was the villain.”

He said nothing.

“Am I right? And Dick Datchery is obviously Neville Landless.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. The chapter with the crypt, the drugging of the wine— what else could it mean? Now, tell me what I got wrong.”

He grinned. “Read the final chapter and see.”

“You might simply tell me,” I replied. “I don’t fancy wading through another chapter of Dickensian prose.”

“It will be better if you read it for yourself,” he replied.

I frowned. “Why? Oh, don’t tell me— it’s something ridiculous. He faked his death for some idiotic reason. He’s been going around disguised as Dick Datchery, who is really dead, and is planning to murder his uncle.”

“Read,” he ordered.

Sighing, I picked up the book and began scanning the final chapter. When I reached the end, I flipped back and read again.

“It stops in the middle of a sentence! That’s no kind of ending— where is the rest?”

“That’s all he wrote.” Watson looked very pleased with himself.

“All he— but why?”

“He died before he finished the story, leaving no notes about what he intended the solution to be.”

“But— he must have...” I gaped at him. “How am I ever to know if my solution was correct?”

“You won’t, unless we have a seance and get Dickens to tell us.”

I leaped up and started pacing. Since the bedroom was not large, this gave me a limited space to work off my frustration. “And you gave me this book, knowing that it had no solution?”

He shrugged. “I always wondered how Dickens might have ended it, and figured thatyou, being a solver of mysteries, would have the answer.”

“Ah, this is a cruel trick, John Watson, making me read a novel for naught! Three hundred-odd pages! No ending!”

“I apologise,” he said. “It did keep you occupied for a few hours, though, didn’t it?”

“You could write the ending,” I suggested.

“You want me to write it? I’m barely a writer, Holmes. You’ve seen my poor attempts at mystery.”

“You _are_ a writer,” I insisted. “You could even be a published author. Mycroft knows a fellow who works at The Strand. I showed him your story and he thought they might pay you for it.”

Now it was his turn to gape. “Holmes, I never intended… it was just a lark, a way to pass the time. I took pleasure in writing those stories, but surely you would hate to have them made public, wouldn’t you?”

“Why would I? What you wrote does no discredit to me. Your stories are not high literature, but entertainment for ordinary readers, who buy quantities of magazines and yellow-backs. I think you should do it.”

“Well, if you think so.” He smiled. “Perhaps I can make a few quid as well. Not bad for a… a boy who never…” He coloured and looked down.

“Never what, John?”

“Never finished school.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about your offer to send me to school, and I owe you some explanation.”

“You told me thatyou dropped out of Edinburgh after your mother died. But that’s not the whole story, is it?”

“My father put no stock in school,” he said softly. “I learned to read and write and do a little arithmetic. He thought more was a waste of time, so he pulled us out once we’d finished the basics and put us to work. He said a man should get his education from life. I loved to read, though, and went through every book I could get my hands on. My father died, and we moved to Edinburgh, where my mum had some family. By then I was too old for school, but I often walked through the university grounds, wishing I were a student there. It was on one such stroll that I met Joseph Bell. He asked me to help him carry a great pile of books. I asked him what he taught, and he told me it was medicine. We talked, and met again after that day. After we knew one another, he offered me a job as his assistant. It didn’t pay much, but I used the opportunity to learn everything I could.”

“Your father was not a doctor.”

“He billed himself as doctor, but had no license. He’d worked as a veterinary assistant and knew something about medicines and treating minor injuries. He was a smart man, and in those days there were a lot of unlicensed healers who called themselves doctors. Trained physicians were a rarity where I grew up. And my granddad was a barber, not a surgeon.”

“Barbers were the first surgeons,” I said.

He nodded. “People came to him for bloodletting. That was still done back then, for lots of ailments. I saw him do an amputation once, a man whose hand was caught in an engine. The man lived. That was all that mattered to the people he treated, that he saved a few lives. But Dr Bell taught me anatomy and physiology, and gave me books to read. I used to sit in his classes, listening and taking notes, and he promised that I could enroll as a student, that he’d find the money to put me in his class. My mum died, though, and there were debts to pay. I joined the army when I was seventeen.”

“I understand. But you’re not so old, and you’re a quick learner. Why will you not consider school now?”

“Because I know what I am, my own limits,” he replied. “Back then, I was never like those boys who studied with Dr Bell. I’m no closer to being like them now. I’m a common man— not ashamed to be poor and unschooled, but I will not set myself up to be an object of ridicule. Experience has taught me what people are like, and where I belong.”

“They won’t look down on you, John. You’ll outshine them—“

“You don’t understand. It doesn’t matter how intelligent a man is, or how expensive the clothing he wears. Class determines where he goes in life. I could make a million pounds, and as far as people are concerned, I’d still be common. A man like me going to university is like a dog trying to walk on its hind legs. I’ll never fit into the world you come from, Sherlock. In the eyes of society, a man’s class is the same as what he’s worth and where he can go in life. Maybe not fair, but I’m content with who I am and what I have. Men like me don’t go to university and become doctors. I’m your assistant, and whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. Better that I should take risks than you.“

“John.” I put my arms around him, holding him close. “You’re worth so much more. So much more to me.”

He shook his head. “What you see is fake, Holmes. It’s just as you deduced when we met. I’m an opportunist who will not hesitate to pass himself off as better than he is in order to get ahead. That may serve you well, but it will not get me through medical school.”

“It will if we approach it in the right way,” I said. “Joseph Bell recognised talent in you; there are others who will do the same. You don’t need to pretend to be anything but what you are. You have the ability to do this.”

“But school costs money,” he objected. “And solving murders is not exactly making us rich.” I could see the light in his eyes, though, and knew I had swayed him. He wanted this more than anything, and now that it was in his reach, he would take what I offered him.

“I have money, John. I only need to convince Mycroft to give me access to it.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Very little possibility of that happening. He considers me a fraud.”

“If he thought you were defrauding me, he would stop paying our rent. He hasn’t done that. I will speak to him.”

“You’re willing to do this?”

“For you, of course.”

Mycroft sat behind his desk, not glowering, but sceptical.

“Your trust fund was set up by our father to ensure that you would be able to marry and set up a household without having to consider what a potential wife would bring into the marriage.”

“Wife?” I laughed. “Are we concerned about wives now?”

“Our mother thinks about such things.”

“You’re not married,” I pointed out.

He ignored this observation. “What do you plan to do with this money? I’ve been paying your rent for months, so it can hardly be to pay off debt. At least, I hope you haven’t been living beyond your means.”

“We live quite frugally,” I said. “I have no debt.”

“Do you wish to return to university and finish your degree? If that is the case, Mummy will be happy to pay. She has always hated the fact that you did not finish at Cambridge.”

“It’s… something like that. Watson and I have been building up our little firm over the past year, as you know. We have more clients, many of them able to pay well. We’ve discussed it, and decided that we could benefit from improving our professional expertise.”

“Professional expertise?”

“Medical expertise, specifically.” I had planned exactly what I intended to say, but could already tell that Mycroft was not going to buy it. “As you know, Watson has some medical training.”

He snorted. “Sherlock, you know that’s not true. At least, I hope you do, and that he hasn’t been pulling the wool over your eyes all this time. He has no formal schooling outside of what the government hands out free of charge to our poorest citizens.”

“And why does our government offer free education to the poor, if not to better their lot, give them the ability to raise themselves up?”

“Which he has done,” Mycroft replied. “He could never have reached this point if he hadn’t been possessed of an inflated self-image and an excess of bravado, in addition to some native ability. I applaud him for being a self-taught man, but if you are intending to send him to medical school, you must know that he will not be accepted. People like him do not become doctors,” he added, echoing Watson’s own words.

“Why not? Is aptitude for such things limited to people born with the money to afford it? Think of the boys you went to school with, Mycroft. You know that at least half of them were idiots, and the rest were lazy sods who only succeeded by having connections. They have succeeded in life because they started several leagues ahead of people like John Watson.”

“ _Connections_ are exactly what I’m talking about. Your Watson may be able to pass himself off as the scion of a noble family fallen on hard times, but he doesn’t _know_ anyone. He doesn’t have a _name._ It will be obvious that he is an imposter.”

“He knows _us_.”

Mycroft sighed, which was a good sign. If he had wished to end the discussion, he would have laughed in my face.

“Sherlock, why is this so important to you? You clearly value him, to the extent that you put your own reputation at risk. Is it that you’re ashamed of him and think this will make him more acceptable?”

“I am _not_ ashamed of Watson. He is the best partner I could have. He is brave, and intelligent and loyal.”

“Then why go through the expense and time of _gilding your lily_ with an unnecessary degree?”

“Because he is worth it,” I said. “And I owe it to him. Before he met me, he was at a low point, but I have no doubt that he would have made a fortune by now if he hadn’t showed up at Baker Street that evening in Anstruther’s stead. He did show up, and that nearly ruined him. After all that, he chose me, saying that he was intrigued by the work and willing to forgo a salary to learn. He took a gamble on me, and I want to give him something in return that will increase his value in his own eyes. He already has value in mine.”

For several minutes Mycroft said nothing. Again, a hopeful sign. That he was even thinking about this meant I had almost won. I didn’t want to celebrate yet, but I relaxed a bit, prepared for the questions that would finalise our agreement.

“Sherlock,” he said finally. “I would rather not touch your trust just yet. Father intended you to be twenty-five at a minimum and considering marriage before gaining access.”

I drew a deep breath, prepared to refute whatever logic he was following, but he raised a hand, stilling me.

“I will pay his tuition myself. I will also speak to a friend at the University of London who will understand Watson’s unconventional resume. Admission will require an interview, but if your boy is as gifted as you seem to think, there should be no problem. He can start in the fall term. Once he is enrolled, I will require progress reports if I am to continue paying. And the two of you _must_ stay out of trouble. This is not negotiable. Your relationship must be understood to be that of flatmates and business partners, nothing more. Your work carries its own risks, I understand, but please try not to involve yourselves in anything questionable. Avoid quarrels with the Yard. Any of these things could ruin you. Do you understand, and do you agree?”

“Yes, and yes,” I said. “Thank you, Mycroft. You will not be disappointed.”

“You’re not curious?” he asked. “Do you not wish to know why I am doing this?”

“I thought it would be ungracious to ask.”

He laughed. “When has that ever stopped you from asking what you want to know? Well, I will tell not tell you. Ask me in another year or two.”

“Why a year or two?”

He smiled. “Because by then I will be certain.’

Spring finally gained a foothold in London. The rain traded days with the sunshine, and we shed our heavy coats.

Watson had his interview with a panel of doctors on the faculty of the University of London. They asked him questions about anatomy and his understanding of disease, and were impressed at his level of understanding. They admitted him for the fall term without any reservations. At once I went out and paid for all the books he would need, sending the bill to Mycroft, of course.

“You are already ahead of the pack,” I told him. “I can tutor you in chemistry, and other subjects as needed. You will easily pass your exams when the time comes.”

“Do you know they’ve started admitting women?” he asked.

“What for? Why would a woman—”

“Holmes, you do realise that people will say the same about me, asking why a man of my class would want a university education?”

“People are idiots,” I said. “We will pay them no mind.”

Running down an alley, I fell, landing on my knee. Watson flew to my side.

“Don’t even think about it, Holmes,” he said.

I winced at the pain as I tried to put weight on my leg. “Think about what?”

“Sending me after the suspect.” Watson gave me a severe look. “And don’t think about walking, either.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” I said. “That is a lesson I’ve already learned. And it seems you have learned as well.”

I sat and stretched out my leg. Watson rolled up the leg of my trousers, examined the skin, and felt the ankle joint.

“How does it look, Doctor?” I said, smiling.

“A sprain, not a break,” he said. “But don’t think that I’m going to let you limp after criminals for a few weeks. You’re staying in the flat with ice on that ankle. If there’s any legwork to be done, I will do it.”

I laughed. “No legwork for you, my dear. You’re going to be waiting on me, hand and foot. And other anatomical parts, as I may require.”

Watson smiled. “As you wish.”


End file.
